I have a question. If I put bones in front of you, how do you know if they are chicken bones, rat bones, fish bones, or human bones? Or, if I put a younger and older person in front of you, how do you know if they are related?

Ah. At this point, you’re probably thinking DNA. You’re not wrong.

These random questions were asked by my friend three hours ago. I was confused because I just came to eat dinner, and mid-way, she randomly asked. I paused the journey of the fried meat making its way to my mouth, looked at her suspiciously, and said, “I hope for your sake this is not some rat.”

I have nothing against rats except the vivid memory of the terror they gave me when I was younger. Where I grew up, rats had audacity. Some could even bypass the traps my brothers placed. I’m saying those rats were calculative. I haven’t seen one since I moved abroad, and I hope for no encounters. Definitely not through my food.

She laughed and said, “You know I would never.”

I believe her because we grew up in the same area. Though, there were others who enacted revenge on those tormenting rats by catching and eating them, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Her question led to the topic of evidence. Can anything be true without evidence? The concept of evidence has existed literally since ancient civilizations, and is even fundamental to science, law, and history.

But my argument was that the truth doesn’t need backing. If something is true, it wouldn’t need evidence. Therefore, something can indeed be true without evidence. Moreover, just because there is evidence doesn’t mean it’s true.

Anastasia countered, “That’s not the argument, though. I’m not saying evidence holds the truth but the other way around, that truth holds evidence.”

At this moment, I knew I was losing the argument. But to solidify her position, she asked, “What truth doesn’t have evidence?”

I thought about it for a while and came up with nothing. In times like this, I want to bring up a biblical account, but even those have historical and archaeological evidence. Before I could speak, she said, “I’m going to give you an example. You could argue that the bones are from a rat. A father could try to convince you that a boy is his son. Or in an investigation, one could plant evidence to make the innocent look guilty. The problem is in the ‘coulds.’”

I stared blankly because Anastasia can be dramatic at times. She could have just gone straight to the point, but she had to land it like, “The problem is in the ‘coulds.’”

As if reading my mind, she said, “I’m making the point.” She sipped her kombucha before continuing. So dramatic. “No matter what someone could argue, it doesn’t change the fact of the truth. If someone looks at the bones and says, ‘Rat bones are small and light, and this bone looks small and light,’ it could still be chicken. The bones are what they are, regardless of the argument.”

I decided to put my philosophy class into practice and said, “But if the first and second premises are right, then the conclusion has to be right.”

She replied, “They have to be related. You can’t say, ‘The rainbow has seven colors, I am a girl, therefore we saw each other today.’ Just because rats are small and bones are small doesn’t mean they’re rat bones.”

She made her point so well that I said, “Okay, but a man can argue that someone is his son even if they aren’t biologically related.”

I felt like this contradicted my initial answer about DNA, but so be it. At this point, I was just learning, not arguing.

Anastasia took another sip and said, “Yes, even if they aren’t related by blood, there would need to be a document as evidence that this is his son. A man could care for someone like his son, but that doesn’t mean he actually is. Not legally, anyway. And about planting evidence, the truth would still be that the innocent person is innocent. Even if the guilty succeed in looking innocent, it’s a lie. They could live the rest of their life in that lie, but I guess that’s an argument for whether the truth alone is ever enough.”

I didn’t have a rebuttal, so I said, “Hmm, so the truth is still that these bones belong to a chicken.”

She laughed, and I finally let the fried meat complete its journey into my mouth.